The Naked and the Dead (18 page)

            He pressed his feet into the thick mud of the hole, and, still looking into the jungle, picked some mud off his boots with one hand and began to knead it like a piece of clay. He was unconscious of doing this. His neck had begun to pain him from the tension with which he held himself. It seemed to him that the hole was terribly open and that there was not enough protection. He felt bitter that a man should have to stand guard in an open hole with only a machine gun before him.

            There was a frantic scuffling behind the first wall of jungle and Roth ground his jaws together to keep from uttering a sound. The noises were coming closer like men creeping up, moving a few feet and then halting, before approaching another few feet. He fumbled around the tripod of the machine gun to find a grenade, and then held it in his hand wondering where to throw it. The grenade seemed extremely heavy, and he felt so weak that he doubted if he could hurl it more than ten yards. In training he had been told the effective range of a grenade was thirty-five yards, and he was afraid now that he would be killed by his own grenade. He replaced it beneath the machine gun, and just sat there.

            His fear had to ebb after a time. For perhaps half an hour he had been waiting for the noises to develop into something, and when nothing occurred, his confidence began to come back. He did not reason that if there were Japs they might spend two hours in advancing fifty yards toward him; because he could not bear the suspense, a part of him assumed that they could not either, and he became convinced there was nothing in the jungle but some animals scurrying about. He lay back in the hole with his shirt against the damp rear wall, and began to relax. His nerves calmed slowly, rousing to a pitch of fear again every time some sudden noise came out of the jungle, but still becoming more and more composed like a receding tide. After an hour had passed he grew sleepy. He thought of nothing, listened only to the profound pendant silence of the wood. A mosquito began to sing about his ears and his neck, and he waited for it to bite him so that he could crush it. It made him think that there might be insects in the hole with him, and his body began to crawl, and for a few moments he was certain an ant was traveling down his back. It recalled to him the roaches that had infested the first apartment he had had when he was married. He remembered how he had reassured his wife, "There's nothing to worry about, Zelda. I can tell you from my studies that the roach is not too vicious a pest." Zelda had got some idea that there must be bedbugs also, and no matter how many times he reassured her, "Zelda, roaches eat bedbugs," she would start up in bed, and grasp him with fear, "Herman, I know there's something biting me."

            "But I tell you that's impossible."

            "Don't tell me about your roaches," she would whisper angrily in the darkened bedroom. "If roaches take care of bedbugs they have to get into the bed to do it, don't they?"

            Roth felt a mingled pleasure and wistfulness in remembering. Their life together had not been all that he had hoped. There were so many fights, and Zelda had a cruel tongue; he recalled how she had taunted him with his education and the fact that he could make no money. It had not been entirely her fault, he thought, but then it had not been his either. No one was to blame. It was just that you didn't get everything you had hoped for when you were a kid. He wiped his hands on his fatigue trousers with a slow thorough motion. Zelda had been a good wife in some ways. Their quarrels had become as difficult for him to remember as her face. He mused about her now, and in his mind she became another woman, many women. He began to construct a lewd fantasy in his mind.

            Roth dreamt he was taking pornographic pictures of a model whom he had dressed as a cowgirl. She was wearing a ten-gallon hat, and a leather fringe about an inch wide across her breasts, and a leather holster and cartridge belt slung at an angle across her hips. He imagined now that he was telling her which way to pose and she was obeying with a tantalizing insouciance. His groin began to ache, and he sat there, brooding, dreaming.

            After a time he became sleepy again, and tried to fight against it. Some artillery was firing steadily a mile or two away, the sounds loud, then muffled, then loud again. It gave him a secure feeling. He hardly listened any longer to the jungle. His eyes kept closing, remaining shut for many seconds while he yawed away on the edge of slumber. Several times he was about to fall asleep when a sudden noise in the jungle would rouse him with a start. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch and realized with dismay that he had still an hour of guard. He lay back, closed his eyes with the full intention of opening them in a few seconds, and fell asleep.

            It was the last he remembered until he awoke almost two hours later. It had begun to rain once more, and the gentle drizzle had soaked his fatigues and penetrated to the insides of his shoes. He sneezed miserably once, and then realized with dismay how long he had been asleep. "A Jap could have killed me," he said to himself, and the thought sent electric wakening shudders through his body. He got out of the foxhole and stumbled over toward where Brown was sleeping. He would have missed him but he heard Brown whisper, "What the hell are you thrashing around for like a pig in the brush?"

            Roth was meek. "I couldn't find you," he whined.

            "Hell of a note," Brown said. He stretched once in his blankets, and stood up. "I couldn't sleep," he said. "Too many goddam noises. . . What time is it?"

            "After three-thirty."

            "You were supposed to wake me at three."

            Roth had been afraid of this. "I began to think," Roth said weakly, "and lost track of the time."

            "Shit!" Brown said. He finished tying his shoes and walked out to the emplacement without saying anything else.

            Roth stood still for a moment, his rifle strap chafing his shoulder, and then began looking for the place where he and Minetta were sleeping for the night. Minetta had pulled the blankets over him, and Roth lay down beside him gingerly, and tried to tug them away. At home he had always insisted on having the sheets tucked in tightly; now with the blankets drawn up over his feet he was miserable. Everything seemed wet. The rain kept falling on his exposed legs and he became very chilled. The blankets were midway between sopping and damp; they had a musty wet odor which reminded him of the smell of feet. He kept turning over, trying to find an accommodating place on the ground, but it seemed as if a root were always sticking into the small of his back. The drizzle teased him when he pulled the blankets off his face. He was sweating and shuddering at the same time, and he was convinced he would be sick. Why didn't I tell Brown he ought to be glad I stood an extra half hour of guard for him? he asked himself abruptly, and felt frustrated and bitter that he had failed to answer him. Wait, I'll tell him in the morning, he assured himself angrily. Of the men in the platoon he decided there was not one of them he really liked. They're all stupid, he said to himself. There wasn't a single one of them who was the least bit friendly to a new man, and he felt a spasm of loneliness. His feet were cold. When he tried to wriggle his toes, the hopelessness of warming them overwhelmed him. He tried to think of his wife and son and it seemed to him there could be no more perfect life than to return to them. His wife had a soft mothering look now in her eyes, and his son was staring at him with delight and respect. He thought of his son growing up, discussing serious things with him, valuing his opinion. The drizzle tickled his ear, and he pulled the end of the blanket over his head again. Minetta's body was warm and he huddled toward it. He thought once again of his infant son, and felt a swell of pride. He thinks I'm someone, Roth said to himself. I'll show them yet. His eyes closed and he loosed a long whispering sigh, immensely wistful in the soft drizzling night.

            That fuggin Roth, Brown said to himself, falling asleep on guard and maybe getting us all killed. No man's got a right to do something like that; he lets his buddies down and they ain't a worse thing a man can do.

            No, sir, Brown repeated, they ain't a worse thing a man can do. I may be afraid and I may have my nerves shot all to hell, but at least I act like a sergeant and take care of my duties. There's no easy way to get ahead; a man's got to pull his share, take his responsibilities, and then he gets what he earns. I've had my eye on Roth from the beginning. He's no good, he's lazy, he's shiftless, and he don't take an interest in anything. I hate these fathers who bitch because they finally got caught. Hell, what about us who been sweating it out for a couple of years and Lord knows how long to come? We were fightin' when they were screwin' their wives, and maybe screwin' ours too.

            Brown shifted his weight angrily on the cartridge boxes and looked out at the jungle, rubbing his hand reflectively over the bridge of his short snubbed nose. Yeah, what about us, he said to himself, sitting out here in a lousy hole in the rain, sweatin' out every goddam noise while those women are on the loose havin' their own sweet time? I should have known better, marrying a two-timing bitch like that. Even when we were in high school, she was rubbing up against everything that wore pants. Oh, I know a lot more now, I know that it's a mistake to marry a woman 'cause you can't make her any other way, holding out on me for all that time, and even now I don't know if she was cherry. There ain't any such thing as a clean decent woman any more, when a man's sister will go up to him and tell him to mind his own business because she's fooling around and her husband's out of town, it's time for a man to open his eyes. There ain't a one of them a man can trust out of his sight; how many times have I picked up a piece from a married woman with kids, it's disgustin' the way they all act.

            Brown took his rifle off his knees and laid it against the machine gun. It's bad enough with all a man's got to worry about out here, with guys like that fuggin Roth who fall asleep on guard, and trying to keep the details straight so no man has to work more than his share, and always wondering if today is the day you get it, so that you'd think a woman would have the decency to keep her legs closed, but, no, there isn't one of them that's worth a snowball in hell. All the time we're out here beating our meat for company, doing it till it's disgusting, but what the hell else is there? I oughta quit 'cause it breaks down your confidence, and I'd be feeling stronger, but how can ya without a goddam woman and nothing to think about? All the men do it. Sure.

            And right now what is she doing, she's probably right in bed talking to a guy this very minute and they're figuring out what they're gonna do with the ten thousand insurance on me when I get knocked off. Well, I'm gonna fool them, I'm gonna live through the goddam war and then I'm gonna get rid of her, and then I'm gonna make my mark. There'll be a lot of ways for a man to make some money after the war if he isn't afraid of some hard work and taking on some responsibility, and I'm not afraid. All the men say I'm a good noncom. I may not be as good a scout as Martinez and I may not have ice instead of blood in my veins the way Croft has, but I'm fair, and I take my job seriously. I'm not like Red, always goofing off, or thinkin' of a smart crack instead of working, I really try hard to be a good noncom 'cause if you succeed in the Army there isn't any other place you won't succeed. If you have to do something you might as well do it right, that's what I believe.

            Some artillery fired continuously for several minutes, and Brown listened to it tensely. The boys are really getting it now, he told himself, sure as hell, the Japs are attacking and recon's bound to be in the middle of it. We're a hard-luck platoon, there's no doubt about it, I just hope nobody gets hurt tonight. He stared into the darkness. I'm real lucky being left behind, he told himself, I'm sure glad I'm not in Martinez's shoes. It's going to be real rough tonight, and I don't want any part of it. I've had my share of the close ones, running across a field with a machine gun ticking after me or swimming in the water that time the Japs had the AA gun turned on us is enough for any man to have to take. I'm proud I'm a sergeant, but there are times when I wish I was just a buck private and all I had to do was bitch like Roth. I've got to look out for myself because no one else will, and I've sweated this war out long enough not to get hit now.

            He fingered one of the jungle ulcers on his mouth. I just hope to hell none of the boys get hurt tonight, he said to himself.

            The truck convoy ground sullenly through the mud. It was over an hour since recon had left its bivouac area, but it seemed much longer. There were twenty-five men packed inside the truck and, since there were seats for only twelve, over half the men sat on the floor in a tangle of rifles and packs and arms and legs. In the darkness everyone was sweating and the night seemed incomparably dense; the jungle on either side of the road exuded moisture continually.

            No one had anything to say. When the men in the truck listened they could hear the front of the convoy grinding up a grade before them. Occasionally the truck to their rear would creep up close enough for the men to see its blackout lights like two tiny candles in a fog. A mist had settled over the jungle, and in the darkness the men felt disembodied.

            Wyman was sitting on his pack, and when he closed his eyes and let the rumble of the truck shake through him he felt as if he were in a subway. The tension and excitement he had felt when Croft had come up and told them to pack their gear because they were moving forward had abated a little by now and Wyman was drifting along on a mood which vacillated between boredom and a passive stream of odd thoughts and recollections. He was thinking of a time when he had accompanied his mother on a bus trip from New York to Pittsburgh. It was just after his father died, and his mother was going to see her relatives for money. The trip had been fruitless and, coming back on a midnight bus, he and his mother had talked about what they would do and decided that he would have to go to work. He thought of it with a little wonder. At the time it had been the most important night of his life, and now he was going on another trip, a far more eventful one, and he had no idea what would happen. It made him feel very mature for a moment; these were things which had happened just a few years ago, insignificant things now. He was trying to imagine what combat would be like, and he decided it would be impossible to guess. He had always pictured it as something violent, going on for days without halt. And here he had been in the platoon for over a week and nothing had happened; everything had been peaceful and relaxed.